


we had a plan

by stingrcy



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, POV Second Person, ahh just how we like it here :')), i was half asleep when i wrote this so [shrug emoji], lots of repetition because i'm a hoe for that imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-10 21:32:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16462706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stingrcy/pseuds/stingrcy
Summary: It's cold up here in the clouds.(Robin's final moments with the Ylissean Shepherds, as seen through her son's eyes.)





	we had a plan

**Author's Note:**

> something short and sweet :)

You cast a spell. A Risen falls. Another rises to take its place.

You cast another spell. A Risen falls. Another rises to take its place.

It’s cold up here in the clouds. Cold in a way you are sorely unprepared for, cold in a way you almost don’t believe is real — how is it that the sun is so warm yet its skies so gelid? — but you suppose it is only fitting for a war that started in violent heat to end in a harsher cold. It is only fitting for your final battle to be your most difficult one yet. It is only fitting for all of your struggles, all of your labours, all of your griefs, and all of your pains; for all that you lost, all that you remember, all that you came for, and all that you gained; for all that you’ve lived for, all that you do live for, and all that you will continue to live for so long as your heart still beats—

You suppose it is only fitting for everything to come to a head atop the end of the world.

You cast a spell. A Risen falls. Another rises to take its place.

Your throat tingles with an itch you know means you will wake up tomorrow with no voice. Your muscles tremble with a fatigue you know means you will wake up tomorrow with no limbs. The dragon lurches and you lurch with it — weight shifting wildly and boots scrambling for gods-damned purchase. Lucina thrusts her sword betwixt the scales beneath you and holds out a hand. You take it and cast a spell. (A Risen falls. Another rises to take its place.)

"We’re nearly there," she breathes. Wipes off her chin. Takes her blade out of rotting scales so she can drive it into rotting flesh. "We’re nearly there, everyone."

Someone to your left shouts a war cry. You think it might be Noire. You think it might be Kjelle. Someone else responds in kind; then someone else, and someone else, and before you know it, you’re answering the hollers with a strained call of your own. Lucina is the last to retort, as she always is when it comes to these group rallies, but her roar of today is different from her roar of yesterday’s. It has always been _must_ with her — we must change fate, I must not fail, we must not let this world fall to darkness again — but now her must is a _will_. We will change fate. I will not fail. We will not let this world fall to darkness again.

It’s this hope that makes you let go of her. It’s this hope that makes you cast another spell. It’s this hope that makes you smile even as your tomes drain you dry, because you’ve been holding onto that hope for a while now and to see it reflected in someone who is arguably your foil brings you a joy that lightens and warms your soul. You _will_ change fate. You _will_ not fail. You _will_ not let this world fall to darkness again, because you have everything you need to win this war, everything you need to rewrite fate, and an infallible strategy concocted by your very own mother.

Lucina looks at you. Smiles, gives you a resolute nod. "We’re nearly there," she repeats. "We’re nearly there."

Somewhere behind you, your mother and her father are proving her right. They are the ones who’re battling against Grima himself — the _only_ ones who can battle against Grima himself. You can’t see them, nor can you hear them, but you can feel the rumbles of a dragon in swelling vexation, and you know everything is going according to plan.

You cast a spell. A Risen falls. Another rises to take its place.

* * *

A screech peals from above just as you strike down another Risen. The sound resonates endlessly within your chest — jars your lungs free and throws your heart down into the pits of your stomach. It burrows deep inside your bones, etches itself into the linings of your soul, crushes your mind beneath its weightless heft — it’s otherworldly in the way the surreal is, pervasive in the way a soured thought is.

It’s ancient.

Worn.

Inexplicably livid.

It’s also very, very terrified.

The fear is perhaps what makes you all still. What makes you all start to turn. A profane god who took everything and more from everyone and more; a fallen dragon whose mere breath can ruin worlds upon worlds upon worlds; Grima, wings of despair, the end of the world — terrified? But then you’re all snapping back to position: tomes afloat, staves aglow, bowstrings pulled, and blades poised. The Risen have not stopped and neither can you, but you know everyone wants to turn around. You know everyone wants to see what kind of miracle your mother has pulled for the dragon to sound so fearful.

The moment comes when Lucina steps in front of you, felling a Risen your magic was intended for. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even make a subtle motion that could suggest anything, but you know what she means.

You know what she’s offering.

You cast one last spell and turn around.

Something’s wrong.

The puppet is gone. Fell off, perhaps, or simply disintegrated into ashes like the Risen do. The dragon is sinking. Slower than you expected it to, but it’s sinking. Grima has been routed.

Why is it, then, that Lucina’s father looks so betrayed?

There’s shocked heartbreak in his face. A hopeless disbelief that makes you more uneasy than Grima ever could. You think he’s saying something to your mother, because his lips are moving and Mother’s shoulders are held taut like she’s hearing something she doesn’t want to be hearing, and you sort of want to pull away from the battlefield to see what’s going on but then—

Mother is disappearing.

She isn’t actually — visually, she’s still there, just a bit fuzzy ‘round the edges and oozing a smoke you’re not even sure is really coming from her, but somehow, for some reason, you know what this means.

You know what she’s done.

You run.

You hear your friends call out from behind you. Their voices chase after you for a moment, confused and a bit outraged because _the battle isn’t over yet, Morgan, we still need you here, Morgan, where are you going, Morgan, why are you leaving, Morgan?_  (They’re cut off by sharp gasps a second later.)

Mother is disappearing.

You call out to her. Both she and Chrom turn at your cry and their faces, already puckered full with conflicting regrets, crumple a little further. Mother closes her eyes like she can’t stand looking at you. Chrom closes his eyes like he can barely look at anything else.

Mother is disappearing.

You reach her before she can fully vanish, fingers desperately twisting in her robes. The tears that clog your throat and spill from stinging eyes are burning against your icy skin. "We had a plan," you scream at her. The lump in your throat turns into several lumps in your chest and your next words are scarcely coherent sobs. "We had a plan! Mother, we had a plan!"

And all she does is smile. All gentle, all soft: like _you’re_ the one fading from existence for what is possibly an eternity. Like _you’re_ the one whose short life is about to end. It makes you sob all the harder.

"Plans change," she says. Her robes slip past your fingers. She pushes your hair back with a faint hand, places a kiss on your sweaty forehead, wraps translucent arms ‘round your shoulders. You don’t feel them. You can’t feel them. Your throat throbs from all the strain, but you can’t stop screaming. "Plans change, Morgan, and a good tactician is always willing and able to adapt."

You tell her you don’t want to adapt. You tell her her plan was perfect the way it was. You tell her you can’t lose her again.

Her smile wilts. She cups your cheeks with hands that aren’t there, presses a forehead that isn’t there against yours. She’s crying, too, you belatedly realise. (She’s crying, too.)

"I’m sorry, Morgan," she whispers. Whispers, then huffs a watery laugh. "Morgan. Love of my life. Strapping young lad and all that."

Mother disappears.

(You hear someone keen in the distance. You think it might be you.)

**Author's Note:**

> forgive me for the late night mistakes if i let any slip by. hope y'all enjoyed that!


End file.
